His head was nothing but a hat-band;
He looked so lone, and so unwived,
That soon the Widow Cross contrived
To fall in love with even that band!
And all at once the brackish juices
Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices—
Tear after tear too fast to wipe,
Tho' sopped, and sopped, and sopped again—
No leak in sorrow's private pipe,
But like a bursting on the main!